Do you know that moment, upon waking, when you rejoice to see the nightmare collapsing into oblivion? Oh, the relief that your life is real!
I woke up, late that afternoon, after napping myself out of despair. I woke up to the bright light of the thought that everything—no, let me be careful with my words—anything is possible. It flashed so brilliantly that I could neither deny it nor describe it. Then the sunbeams flickering on the quilt illuminated the shadowy contours of this epiphany: I had to behold the shape of me, just younger, believing that life would be anything, all things, everything. As hope attaches to possibility, the grief of growing older attaches to the substance of time moving past and closing in—failures, fears, impossibilities as familiar to me as any triumph. My thoughts remain too friendly to those bygones, as though they are proof of the worthiness of giving up. Why shouldn't a failure at least get you some credit for the attempt? Why doesn't the presence of fear speak to the capacity to imagine? I slowly reach out to hold this small being, this skittish subject. No demands, no agenda except to not leave her buried in grief. I know that my brain and mind or whatever electric music that dances between them will never provide the proper tools for this excavation. I cannot reach for all things, even in spirit. My efforts cannot be endless, or unlimited, or eternal. This resurrection must take place in the entirety of my soul. From this body as she is today. Where else do I have my being? Have you known that moment, upon waking, when all that you know floats? Look, how it all surrounds you. Oh, the relief of your life, your life is real!